DEEPER WATER.
“Une bonne intention est une échelle trop courte.”
“I have had considerable experience in such matters, and I think I may
say that the new financial scheme worked out by Mr. Roden and myself is
a sound one,” Lord Ferriby was saying in his best manner.
He was addressing Major White, Tony Cornish, Von Holzen, and Percy
Roden, convened to a meeting in the private _salon_ occupied by the
Ferribys at the Hotel of the Old Shooting Gallery, at The Hague.
The _salon_ in question was at the front of the house on the first
floor, and therefore looked out upon the Toornoifeld, where the trees
were beginning to show a tender green, under the encouragement of a
treacherous April sun. Major White, seated bolt upright in his chair,
looked with a gentle surprise out of the window. He had so small an
opinion of his understanding that he usually begged explanatory persons
to excuse him. “No doubt you're quite right, but it's no use trying to
explain it to _me_, don't you know,” he was in the habit of saying, and
his attitude said no less at the present moment.
Von Holzen, with his chin in the palm of his hand, watched Lord
Ferriby's face with a greater attention than that transparent
physiognomy required. Roden's attention was fully occupied by the
papers on the table in front of him. He was seated by Lord Ferriby's
side, ready to prompt or assist, as behoved a merely mechanical
subordinate. Lord Ferriby, dimly conscious of this mental attitude, had
spoken Roden's name with considerable patronage, and with the evident
desire to give every man his due. Cornish, in his quick and superficial
way, glanced from one face to the other, taking in _en passant_ any
object in the room that happened to call for a momentary attention. He
noted the passive and somewhat bovine surprise on White's face, and
wondered whether it owed its presence thereto astonishment at finding
himself taking part in a committee meeting or amazement at the
suggestion that Lord Ferriby should be capable of evolving any scheme,
financial or otherwise, out of his own brain. The committee thus
summoned was a fair sample of its kind. Here were a number of men
dividing a sense of responsibility among them so impartially that there
was not nearly enough of it to go round. In a multitude of councilors
there may be safety, but it is assuredly the councillors only who are
safe.
“The reasons,” continued Lord Ferriby, “why it is inexpedient to
continue in our present position as mere trustees of a charitable fund
are too numerous to go into at the present moment. Suffice it to say
that there are many such reasons, and that I have satisfied myself of
their soundness. Our chief desire is to ameliorate the condition of the
malgamite workers. It must assuredly suggest itself to any one of us
that the best method of doing this is to make the malgamite workers an
independent corporation, bound together by the greatest of ties, a
common interest.”
The speaker paused, and turned to Roden with a triumphant smile, as
much as to say, “There, beat that if you can.”
Roden could not beat it, so he nodded thoughtfully, and examined the
point of his pen.
“Gentlemen,” said Lord Ferriby, impressively, “the greatest common
interest is a common purse.”
As the meeting was too small for applause, Lord Ferriby only allowed
sufficient time for this great truth to be assimilated, and then
continued--“It is proposed, therefore, that we turn the Malgamite
Works into a company, the most numerous shareholders to be the
malgamiters themselves. The most numerous shareholders, mark
you--not the heaviest shareholders. These shall be ourselves. We
propose to estimate the capital of the company at ten thousand pounds,
which, as you know, is, approximately speaking, the amount
raised by our appeals on behalf of this great charity. We shall divide
this capital into two thousand five-pound shares, allot one share to
each malgamite worker--say five hundred shares--and retain the
rest--say fifteen hundred shares--ourselves. Of those fifteen hundred,
it is proposed to allot three hundred to each of us. Do I make myself
clear?”
“Yes,” answered Major White, optimistically polishing his eye-glass
with a pocket-handkerchief. “Any ass could understand that.”
“Our friend Mr. Roden,” continued his lordship, “who, I mention in
passing, is one of the finest financiers with whom I have ever had
relationship, is of opinion that this company, having its works in
Holland, should not be registered as a limited company in England. The
reasons for holding such an opinion are, briefly, connected with the
interference of the English law in the management of a limited
liability company formed for the sole purpose of making money.
We are not disposed to classify ourselves as such a company. We are not
disposed to pay the English income tax on money which is intended for
distribution in charity. Each malgamite worker, with his one share, is
not, precisely speaking, so much a shareholder as a participator in
profits. We are not in any sense a limited liability company.”
That Lord Ferriby had again made himself clear was sufficiently
indicated by the fact that Major White nodded his head at this juncture
with portentous gravity and wisdom.
“As to the question of profit and loss,” continued Lord Ferriby, “I am
not, unfortunately, a business man myself, but I think we are all aware
that the business part of the Malgamite scheme is in excellent hands.
It is not, of course, intended that we, as shareholders, shall in any
way profit by this new financial basis. We are shareholders in name
only, and receive profits, if profits there be, merely as trustees of
the Malgamite Fund. We shall administer those profits precisely as we
have administered the fund--for the sole benefit of the malgamite
workers. The profits of these poor men, earned on their own share, may
reasonably be considered in the light of a bonus. So much for the basis
upon which I propose that we shall work. The matter has had Mr. Roden's
careful consideration, and I think we are ready to give our consent to
any proposal which has received so marked a benefit. There are, of
course, many details which will require discussion----Eh?”
Lord Ferriby broke off short, and turned to Roden, who had muttered a
few words.
“Ah--yes. Yes, certainly. Mr. Roden will kindly spare us details as
much as possible.”
This was considerate and somewhat appropriate, as Tony Cornish had
yawned more than once.
“Now as to the past,” continued Lord Ferriby. “The works have been
going for more than three months, and the result has been uniformly
satisfactory----Eh?”
“Many deaths?” inquired White, stolidly repeating his question.
“Deaths? Ah--among the workers? Yes, to be sure. Perhaps Mr. von Holzen
can tell you better than I.”
And his lordship bowed in what he took to be the foreign manner across
the table.
“Yes,” replied Von Holzen, quietly, “there have, of course, been
deaths, but not so many as I anticipated. The majority of the men had,
as Mr. Cornish will tell you, death written on their faces when they
arrived at The Hague.”
“They certainly looked seedy,” admitted Tony.
“We will, I think, turn rather to the--eh--er--living,” said Lord
Ferriby, turning over the papers in front of him with a slightly
reproachful countenance. He evidently thought it rather bad form of
White to pour cold water over his new whitewash. For Lord Ferriby's was
that charity which hopeth all things, and closeth her eye to practical
facts, if these be discouraging. “I have here the result of the three
months' work.”
He looked at the papers with so condescending an air that it was quite
evident that, had he been a business man and not a lord, he would have
understood them at a glance. There was a short silence while he turned
over the closely written sheets with an air of approving interest.
“Yes,” he said, as if during those moments he had run his eye up all
the column of figures and found them correct, “the result, as I say,
gentlemen, has been most satisfactory. We have manufactured a malgamite
which has been well received by the paper-makers. We have, furthermore,
been able to supply at the current rate without any serious loss. We
are increasing our plant, and the day is not so far distant when we
may, at all events, hope to be self-supporting.”
Lord Ferriby sat up and pulled down his waistcoat, a sure signal that
the fountain of his garrulous inspiration was for the moment dried up.
With great presence of mind Tony Cornish interposed a question which
only Roden could answer, and after the consideration of some
statistics, the proceedings terminated. It had been apparent all
through that Percy Roden was the only business man of the party.
In any question of figures or statistics his colleagues showed plainly
that they were at sea. Lord Ferriby had in early life been managed by
a thrifty mother, who had in due course married him to a thrifty wife.
Tony Cornish's business affairs had been narrowed down to the financial
fiasco of a tailor's bill far beyond his facilities. Major White had,
in his subaltern days, been despatched from Gibraltar on a business
quest into the interior of Spain to buy mules there for his Queen and
country. He fell out with a dealer at Ronda, whom he knocked down, and
returned to Gibraltar branded as unbusiness-like and hasty, and there
his commercial enterprise had terminated. Von Holzen was only a
scientist, a fact of which he assured his colleagues repeatedly.
If plain speaking be a sign of friendship, then women are assuredly
capable of higher flights than men. A lifelong friendship between two
women usually means that they quarrelled at school, and have retained
in later days the privilege of mutual plain speaking. If Jones, who was
Tompkins's best man, goes yachting with Tompkins in later days, these
two sinners are quite capable of enjoying themselves immensely in the
present without raking about among the ashes of the past to seek the
reason why Tompkins persisted, in spite of his friends' advice, in
making an idiot of himself over that Robinson girl--Jones standing by
all the while with the ring in his waistcoat pocket. Whereas, if the
friendship existed between the respective ladies of Jones and Tompkins,
their conversation will usually be found to begin with: “I always told
you, Maria, when we were girls together,” or, “Well, Jane, when we were
at school you never would listen to me.” A man's friendship is
apparently based upon a knowledge of another's redeeming qualities. A
woman's dearest friend is she whose faults will bear the closest
investigation.
It was doubtless owing to these trifling variations in temperament that
Joan Ferriby learnt more about The Hague and Percy Roden and Otto von
Holzen, and lastly, though not leastly, Mrs. Vansittart, in ten minutes
than Tony Cornish could have learnt in a month of patient
investigation. The first five of these ten precious minutes were spent
in kissing Dorothy Roden, and admiring her hat, and holding her at
arm's length, and saying, with conviction, that she was a dear. Then
Joan asked why Dorothy had ceased writing, and Dorothy proved that it
was Joan who had been in default, and lo! a bridge was thrown across
the years, and they were friends once more.
“And you mean to tell me,” said Joan, as they walked up the Korte
Voorhout towards the canal and the Wood, “that you don't take any
interest in the Malgamite scheme?”
“No,” answered Dorothy. “And I am weary of the very word.”
“But then you always were rather--well, frivolous, weren't you?”
“I did not take lessons as seriously as you, perhaps, if that is what
you mean,” admitted Dorothy.
And Joan, who had come across to Holland full of zeal in well-doing,
and as seriously as ever Queen Marguerite sailed to the Holy Land,
walked on in silence. The trees were just breaking into leaf, and the
air was laden with a subtle odour of spring. The Korte Voorhout is, as
many know, a short broad street, spotlessly clean, bordered on either
side by quaint and comfortable houses. The traffic is usually limited
to one carriage going to the Wood, and on the pavement a few leisurely
persons engaged in taking exercise in the sunshine. It was a different
atmosphere to that from which Joan had come, more restful, purer
perhaps, and certainly healthier, possibly more thoughtful; and
charity, above all virtues, to be practiced well must be practiced
without too much reflection. He who lets wisdom guide his bounty too
closely will end by giving nothing at all.
“At all events,” said Joan, “it is splendid of Mr. Roden to work so
hard in the cause, and to give himself up to it as he does.”
“Ye--es.”
Joan turned sharply and looked at her companion. Dorothy Roden's face
was not, perhaps, easy to read, especially when she turned, as she
turned now, to meet an inquiring glance with an easy smile.
“I have known so many of Percy's schemes,” she explained, “that you
must not expect me to be enthusiastic about this.”
“But this must succeed, whatever may have happened to the others,”
cried Joan. “It is such a good cause. Surely nothing can be a better
aim than to help such afflicted people, who cannot help themselves,
Dorothy! And it is so splendidly organized. Why, Mr. Johnson, the
labour expert, you know, who wears no collar and a soft hat, said that
it could not have been better organized if it had been a strike. And a
Bishop Somebody--a dear old man with legs like a billiard-table--said
it reminded him of the early Christians' _esprit de corps_, or
something like that. Doesn't sound like a bishop, though, does it?”
“No, it doesn't,” admitted Dorothy, doubtfully.
“So if your brother thinks it will not succeed,” said Joan,
confidently, “he is wrong. Besides”--in a final voice--“he has Tony to
help him, you know.”
“Yes,” said Dorothy, looking straight in front of her, “of course he
has Mr. Cornish.”
“And Tony,” pursued Joan, eagerly, “always succeeds. There is something
about him--I don't know what it is.”
Dorothy recollected that Mrs. Vansittart had said something like this
about Tony Cornish. She had said that he had the power of holding his
cards and only playing them at the right moment. Which is perhaps
the secret of success in life, namely, to hold one's cards, and, if the
right moment does not present itself, never to play them at all, but to
hold them to the end of the game, contenting one's self with the
knowledge that one has had, after all, the makings of a fine game that
might have been worth the playing.
“There are people, you know,” Joan broke in earnestly, “who think that
if they can secure Tony for a picnic the weather will be fine.”
“And does he know it?” asked Dorothy, rather shortly.
“Tony?” laughed Joan. “Of course not. He never thinks about anything
like that.”